The Cruise of the Alerte

“There is now living, not far from Newcastle, a retired sea captain, Captain P⁠⸺, who was in command of an East Indiaman engaged in the opium trade in the years 1848 to 1850. At that time the China seas were infested by pirates, so that his vessel carried a few guns, and a larger crew than is usual in these days. He had four quartermasters, one of whom was a foreigner. Captain P⁠⸺ is not sure of his nationality, but thinks he was a Russian Finn. On board the vessel the man went under the name of the pirate, on account of a deep scar across his cheek, which gave him a somewhat sinister appearance. He was a reserved man, better educated than the ordinary sailor, and possessing a good knowledge of navigation.

“Captain P⁠⸺ took a liking to him, and showed him kindness on various occasions. This man was attacked by dysentery on the voyage from China to Bombay, and by the time the vessel reached Bombay he was so ill, in spite of the captain’s nursing, that he had to be taken to the hospital. He gradually sank, and when he found that he was dying, he told Captain P⁠⸺, who frequently visited him at the hospital, that he felt very grateful for the kind treatment he had received at his captain’s hands, and that he would prove his gratitude by revealing a secret to him that might make him one of the richest men in England. Captain P⁠⸺ says that he appeared very uneasy about this secret, and insisted on the door of the ward being closed, so that there might be no listeners. He then asked Captain P⁠⸺ to go to his chest and take out from it a parcel.

And then, to our astonishment, we beheld a very unexpected sight. Rolling easily on the green ocean swell, at some three cables’ length from the shore, lay a small schooner at anchor; her crew⁠—a half-naked, bronzed, and savage-looking lot⁠—were engaged in stowing her mainsail. She was evidently the same schooner we had seen outside. While we had been coasting round the east side of the island, she had followed the west side, and here we had met again. But she was not the only surprise in store for us. There were no sandy dunes in this bay; its shores were steep and rocky, and on either side reefs, on which the sea broke, protected the anchorage to some extent. At the head of one picturesque cove, wherein was evidently the best landing-place, were two small huts, put together of rough stones from the beach, and from these a footpath wound up the bare volcanic cliffs to the green plateau some four hundred feet above. A quantity of barrels were being quickly landed here from one of the schooner’s boats, and several other wild-looking men were carrying these up to a cavern a little way up the rocks behind the huts. The whole formed a wild and fantastic picture. It was just such a scene as Salvator Rosa would have delighted to paint, it would have suited the savage austerity of his style. The rugged cove might well have been the haunt of smugglers or pirates. And who, we wondered, were these people, and what were they doing; these were mysterious proceedings for a desert island! The evident labour of the men while carrying the barrels proved to us that they were very heavy. “Perhaps,” suggested one of us⁠—“perhaps we have just arrived at the right moment to interrupt another band of pirates in the act of hiding another immense treasure.”

This would have been almost too great a stroke for my band of adventurers.

Then the padron, looking rather sly, inquired in his turn:⁠—“What have you Englishmen come here for? It is rare that vessels come by here.”

“It is on our way to Teneriffe,” I replied, “and as this is a pleasure yacht we are not bound to time.”

“Once before an Englishman came here. I thought you might have come for the same reason as he.”

“And why did he come?”

“To look for hidden money.”

This was very interesting, but we tried to assume a look of innocent surprise, as if we had heard nothing of this before.

“There is a great treasure hidden on this island somewhere,” he continued, “and the English know of it. Some years ago this milord came with his yacht, a bigger one than yours, a steamer with three masts, and they dug for the treasure. Oh! it is a great treasure, more than a thousand English pounds they say; but the Englishmen did not find it.”

“Where did they dig?” I asked.

“I do not know. I was not on the island at the time. It was several years ago.”

That was all he seemed to know; we could elicit no further information on the subject from him; but it was evident that the Alerte was not the first yacht that had come to the Salvages in search of the hidden chests of dollars.

As we neared it, the features of this extraordinary place could gradually be distinguished. The north side, that which faced us, is the most barren and desolate portion of the island, and appears to be utterly inaccessible. Here the mountains rise sheer from the boiling surf⁠—fantastically shaped of volcanic rock; cloven by frightful ravines; lowering in perpendicular precipices; in places overhanging threateningly, and, where the mountains have been shaken to pieces by the fires and earthquakes of volcanic action, huge landslips slope steeply into the yawning ravines⁠—landslips of black and red volcanic debris, and loose rocks large as houses, ready on the slightest disturbance to roll down, crashing, into the abysses below. On the summit of the island there floats almost constantly, even on the clearest day, a wreath of dense vapour, never still, but rolling and twisting into strange shapes as the wind eddies among the crags. And above this cloud-wreath rise mighty pinnacles of coal-black rock, like the spires of some gigantic Gothic cathedral piercing the blue southern sky.

It turned out to be a far more tasty dish than one would have supposed.

After dinner the saucepan was cleaned out and grog was served out in it⁠—the last of our supply of rum. We had just lit our pipes and were settling ourselves down to a comfortable half-hour’s smoke and chat before turning in (to whom is a pipe so sweet as to one camping out under the stars after the day’s work?) when suddenly the doctor cried out, “Hullo, look at our beds!” I looked, and lo! to my dismay, those luxurious couches were under water.

I must explain that we had pulled up a quantity of grass and strewed it over the sand, so as to make a snug soft sleeping-place for the night. While we were enjoying our dinner, the river, unobserved by us, had risen considerably, and was now flowing over that portion of the step whereon we had made up our beds. There had been no rain to account for this, so I suppose that the sun, blazing down on the rocks, causes a great evaporation of water during the day, and that, consequently, the volume of the stream is greater after sunset.

So we had now to put aside our pipes and grog for a few moments and undertake some necessary engineering operations: we cleared away a channel through the natural dam of grass, stones, and sand at the lower edge of the step, and so gave a free passage to the swollen stream. The flood subsided at once, and our beds were above water again.